Page 5 of Always Be an Us

And Grandpa loves to tell stories. I climb into his boat and sit, readying myself for it.

"Well, it all started on a stormy night," he begins. I let his voice drone, surrounding me and burying my problems.

Chapter Two

Declan

It’s a strange little town.

I observe it as I drive down a winding back road, lined by red oak and maple. The leaves are turning already, fluttering down, and reflecting the orange haze of the sunset. A poetic man might enjoy the soothing ambience and claim that the pinkish-red hue adds a romantic flair to the early evening air.

I’m not a poetic man.

All I see are trees, trees, and more trees.

I left the town square (and the Marriott) behind about an hour ago, and there’s probably no one around for miles. My destination, a hotel that was a relic from a century ago, sits another ten-minute drive away into the woodsy area. It’s probably covered entirely by thickets now. I may not even recognize it. Dad didn't exactly give me a recent picture, only a vague description of the place and the GPS coordinates.

The coordinates came in handy because apparently this town is inconsistent with its street signs.

Five minutes later, the woods taper out and the road bleeds onto a large clearing of grass, beyond which there is a giant lake, stretching as far as the eye can see. I wonder if it’s the same lake that wrapped around the tiki bar I was just in, a lake that practically surrounds the town.

Thinking about the tiki bar inevitably brings to mind the sassy, curvy waitress who kicked me out of the place and then spilled food on me.

I finally allow a smirk to spread out across my lips.

I’m not used to people being so antagonistic to me, much less women. Typically, I command sufficient respect anywhere I go. Enough so that most people are dying to kiss my ass. Some of it is because of who I am. Most of it is because of the car I drive, how I dress, and who theyperceivethat I am.

Either way, it leads to the same result. A lot more sycophants than friends, and a lot of people willing to jump through hoops to meet my every demand.

But not her.

The first time I ordered the burger to be remade, it was simply because it was awfully dry. And the time after that, the burger was still disgusting. I could have walked out. But I ordered again just to see the expression flash across her face.

She didn't hide her irritation very well. And it was amusing because very few people get openly irritated with me anymore.

I wondered how many times she would agree to remake the burger while her eyes flashed daggers at me. I wondered if her perfunctory smile would still be there each time, or if it would bleed into a look of full frustration. I wondered if she would slap me.

But I didn't expect her to tell me to go fuck off in so polite a manner. That's small-town courtesy for you, I suppose.

I also didn’t expect food to be thrown on me but I'm ninety percent sure that was an accident.

An accident that almost led to an even bigger disaster.

Because when I was staring down at her blue eyes, rimmed with dark lashes and those cupid’s bow lips, every censure fled my tongue. And I was no longer thinking about teasing, or even scolding her.

I was thinking about tasting those lips.

I push the thought out of my head as I pull into a cobblestone pavement overgrown with weeds.

"You have reached your destination," the GPS announces.

"Amazing," I murmur in response. I hope good old Siri can sense my sarcasm because the building I’m looking at is anything but amazing.

It’s a twelfth-century brick mansion spanning across several acres of land, with a wooden detached shed behind it. From afar, the buildings look worn and torn. The wood is bleached by the sun and the paint is washed off the brick. It used to be pink, I guess, but it's now mixed with white mold and dark charred particles that are concentrated at the bottom.

As I close in, the view gets even worse. The interior is made almost entirely of wood, and the stairs creak as I climb onto the patio. Each floor panel I step on shakes a little and would have probably given way if I were a little heavier, and a little slower.

As I draw back the curtain hanging over the large front entrance, dust particles rush into my nose, leading to a coughing fit. The front door itself is hanging off its hinges, which is probably why there is a curtain. Dirty curtains hang over the windows too, but even in the semi-darkness, I note the vastness of the first floor.

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